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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722275">Go West, Young Man</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfpen/pseuds/Elfpen'>Elfpen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Historical Hetalia Week 2021 [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>1800-1945, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, American Civil War, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Historical Hetalia Week 2021, Multi, Texas, artwork, this could very easily be read as USUK</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:07:35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29722275</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfpen/pseuds/Elfpen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Englishman Arthur Kirkland is forced to travel to the United States to attend to some family business in the wake of the American Civil War. Thrown wildly off course by unforeseen travel complications, he ends up further from home than he’s ever been before. His only chance to return to civilization—and his family obligations—may lie with the irritating and enigmatic cowboy, Alfred Jones.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>America &amp; England (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Historical Hetalia Week 2021 [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2178870</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Historical Hetalia Week (February 2021)</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Far From Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Cover art is by the marvelous storylinecontinuum (historihet on tumblr!) Thanks again for letting me use it, friend!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>                                                                   </p><p>Arthur Bartholomew Eleazer Kirkland, Esquire, had traveled across the Atlantic Ocean too many times to be excited about the trip. By the time he made it up the gangway, the ocean liner was already teaming with all manner of filthy English men and women, as well as a few Irish and other assorted flavors of European pauper. They waved and cried and bid farewell to their families ashore. Many, he knew, did not intend to return. He walked past them all as quickly as he could, found his cabin, and shut himself in.</p><p>Oh how he longed for the days when traveling at sea meant trips aboard his father's navy frigate. Back then, the sea was full of decks wide enough for his growing legs to wander, with plenty of space for him to tussle with his brothers, with a forecastle where he could stand and feel the salty breeze press him forward, as if to fly. Those days were long past, and the dear Admiral had been cold in his grave for nearly five years. Arthur had been ferrying himself between the Old World and the New for just as long. Nowadays, the ocean held little charm; only smoke, and steam, and huddled masses of sweaty people who didn't understand the first thing about table manners.</p><p>Business was business and land was land, but the fact that he'd been tasked with managing his family's affairs in the New World simply because he was the youngest and none of his idiot brothers or their idiot wives could be bothered was an eternal source of resentment.</p><p>"Swaggering about in the States is a bachelor's game, Arthur," Alistair had told him, as if mucking about in the war-stained mud of the American South were a treat to be envied. His eldest brother had slapped him on the back hard enough that Arthur had felt his teeth rattle. "You're the man for the job."</p><p>He curled up in his horrible cot and spent as much time being sick as he did attempting to sleep. With the constant hurl of the ocean and the churn of the engines, sleep eluded him almost entirely for nearly all three thousand some-odd miles of his journey.</p><p>They made port in New York City, where he traded in his sterling for dollars, checked in with the bankers who oversaw his family's investments in the States, and hired a valet to carry his luggage to his hotel. He enjoyed all the amenities of Fifth Avenue Hotel, ate what was sure to be the only decent meal before he was back in London, and slept. The following day, Arthur's life relocated to a railcar, or rather railcars, for a trip that required so many transfers from one line to the next that even trying to sort out his tickets brought on a migraine.</p><p>Finally, he was on the final stretch of his journey and headed west: inland from the familiar sight of the sea. From here, the train would carry him over miles and miles of desecrated fields, which were only just now starting to recover, six short years after they'd drank their fill of blood.</p><p>Headache coming on in force, Arthur found his bed—far more comfortable on this railcar than the last—and fell into it. There was no point to staying awake. It was going to be a long journey, and the only thing visible from the windows was human misery and desolate land. <em>I ought to withdraw all our holdings and be done with it, </em>he thought as his eyes drifted shut. But in his dreams, he could never quite make that call as his father stood by his side, hand warm and reassuring on his shoulder.</p><p>Arthur slept, body too exhausted from his journey to observe the passage of day and night, of mealtimes and teatimes.</p><p>It was indeed going to be a long journey, but even in his dreams, Arthur could never have anticipated exactly how long it would be.</p>
<hr/><p>Arthur was not sure how this had happened. He wasn't sure how <em>any </em>of it had happened. How had he slept for so long? How had no one thought to wake him? And most importantly, how had a train set in motion on the East Coast of the United States end up <em>here, </em>in the middle of bleeding <em>nowhere?</em></p><p>Instead of apologizing profusely and offering to take him back East, back North, back to <em>anywhere </em>where he had <em>any chance </em>of getting home, they just laughed and directed him to the door and the vast, flat emptiness outside. There were several attendants watching him stumble off the train, and most of them were snickering. Only some of them were trying to hide it.</p><p>"Well, sir," said one, in an accent that rode the line between inbred hick and condescending southern gentry, "this is as close to where you're going as we're planning on being for the next few weeks. As good a stop as any."</p><p>"As good a—" Arthur began, and stopped. He was so angry, he had no words. He stared out at the hell before him for a few more moments before he opened his clenched jaw to ask, "and when does the next train head north?" he asked.</p><p>"North?" The attendant laughed, actually <em>laughed </em>at him. "We haven't even finished going south, my friend, but you've already overstayed your fare. It's horrible luck, sir, I'll grant you that."</p><p>"And what, <em>friend," </em>Arthur spat, "Am I supposed to do while I wait for the next train?"</p><p>"Get comfortable," the mustachioed man advised. "You'll be waiting a few weeks, or more, if the schedules are right, which they always are." He shrugged and stepped back up onto the railcar; they were almost done refilling the engine's water tank. With a tip of his hat, the man said, "Find a place to stay. Maybe you could sell that fine ol' scarf of yours," he said, "Or that vest. Silk's a rare thing down thisaway; down here, we're all drowning in nothing but cotton."</p><p>A sharp whistle split the air and the platform filled with steam. Arthur jumped, and the train jumped too, surging south to abandon him at a glacial place. And then, there he was, Arthur Kirkland, alone in a godforsaken town made of dirt, mud, scrubby trees, and the saddest ramshackle buildings Arthur had seen in his life. Suitcase in hand, he turned around to see the train platform's sign, brand new and already bleached by the sun: <em>Waxahachie, Texas.</em></p>
<hr/><p>With little else to do, Arthur had begun wandering the streets in search of a constabulary, or an inn, or really anywhere that looked like it might offer him some explanation for why the world had betrayed him so profoundly as to put him in <em>Texas</em>. He found none of these things, but after about fifteen minutes or so wandering down what might've been confused with a main thoroughfare, provided one had never stepped foot in an actual city, he did pick up a… well, a follower.</p><p>He'd been pretending not to notice the sound of hooves, spurs, and the creak of leather tack for several long minutes before at long last, he stopped, turned, and cast a withering glare over his shoulder. The lone mounted figure behind him came to a corresponding stop and tipped his wide-brimmed hat.</p><p>"Howdy," he said, as if they were passing each other on the boardwalk and weren't standing in the middle of a damn road with metres and metres of room on either side where the horsemen could pass him by at any time.</p><p>"Do you mind?" Arthur asked.</p><p>"Hmm," the horseman seemed to consider this. "I mind plenty of things," he said, "which one you wanna know about?" Arthur scowled, turned, and continued walking. The resuming sound of hooves told him the man wasn't far behind.</p><p>"Are you just going to keep following me, then?" Arthur demanded loudly, not stopping.</p><p>"You're not from around here, are ya?" Said the man.</p><p>"What bloody gave it away?" Arthur growled back, looking around. Surely one of these buildings had a law office tucked away. <em>Surely.</em></p><p>"No need for blood," the man teased, turning his horse to follow as Arthur ducked down an alleyway. Arthur had hoped it was too narrow for the man to navigate on horseback, but his horse didn't even blink, and squeezed itself into the passage without any trouble. "Now, call me crazy, but you sound like you come from out East," said the horseman, ducking under a line of clothes set out to dry.</p><p>"Oh really," Arthur was growing tired of this conversation. "You think I'm some Yankee carpetbagger who got lost?" he asked, tone dry. The man laughed—actually <em>laughed, </em>the bastard.</p><p>"No," he said, "I'd wager you're from a bit further east than that." They'd emerged from the alleyway and into a larger—also dirt—road. This one looked broader than the last, the buildings taller and decorated with signs of trade and business. That, at least, was promising. The mounted man was still following him. "Lost your red coat on the way over, huh?" he said.</p><p>"Oh for God's sake," Arthur stopped and rounded on the man, suitcase swinging. The man's horse jerked its nose back to avoid contact, but the man himself didn't budge, sat atop his steed with his arms folded comfortably in his lap, reigns resting loosely at the saddle horn. Arthur counted three firearms: a pistol at either hip, and a gigantic rifle in its holster strapped to the horse's left side. The man watched him with irritating nonchalance, and had the nerve to <em>smile</em>.</p><p>"Are you just going to follow me around all day?" Arthur asked. The man shrugged. Arthur glared at him. "Are you a constable?"</p><p>"If you mean a sheriff's boy, no," the man laughed, as if the idea itself were a joke. "Why, you need help finding your way around?"</p><p>"Not from you, certainly. Now kindly leave a man to his own business and bugger off," Arthur waved his hand and his suitcase in a 'begone' gesture and stormed away.</p><p>About twenty minutes later, wandering from building to building in search of a law office, Arthur turned and found himself confronted by three dirty but well-armed men, all of whom wanted access to his wallet, or his silk cravat, or his boots, which were apparently the exact size needed by one of his assailants; how the man could accurately size a boot upon first glance was beyond him.</p><p>Gunless, knifeless, and knowing his boxing skills would be wasted when all three of these men had more guns than they had ears, Arthur pulled out his wallet. Shaking with rage, he prepared to part with the majority of his cash.</p><p>"Come on now, Gunnar, I thought you were better than this," said a familiar voice, and Arthur, along with his would-be robbers, looked up at the same time. It was the cheeky horseman from before. The gigantic rifle was out of its case, balanced casually across the man's left knee and aimed at heart-height of the spindly, black-mustachioed man whom Arthur presumed, by a matter of deduction, was Gunnar.</p><p>"Jones, you get that damn thing out of my face," Gunnar waved at him, "This ain't none of your business."</p><p>"Maybe I'd like to make it my business," Jones said, drawing back the hammer on his rifle. The barrel alone told Arthur its caliber would throw a man back a matter of metres at this close of range. Jones' finger rested lightly on the trigger.</p><p>"Come off it, man, do we look like buffalo to you?" said one of the others.</p><p>"You sure can sound like one. Gave poor Maddie your best impression at the Tail last night, didn't you, Keets?" This earned a loud laugh from the third man, whom Gunnar smacked in the stomach. Jones shot the jokester a grin. "See? Logan must've heard you, too." Keets cursed and pulled his gun on Jones, but by the time the barrel was up, Jones had his own revolver up, aimed, and cocked.</p><p>"Careful there," said Jones, right hand on the rifle, left hand holding the revolver, "we all know I'm the faster draw. Now get outta here, all three of you." After much cursing and vulgar hand gestures, the trio slunk away. Jones remained, keeping his guns out and cocked until the three men had disappeared. Then, he holstered his revolver, let down the hammer on the rifle, but kept its barrel aimed at Arthur.</p><p>"Still looking for that constable?" Jones asked. Arthur glared at him.</p><p>"What do you want?" he snapped, "Why did you help me?"</p><p>"Well," Jones gave a half-smile, and Arthur was shocked at how white and straight his teeth were, "Seems to me you got a full purse, and I've got no place to stay tonight. Seeing as I just saved your pretty little hide, you're going to thank me by buying me a drink and a room at the Bull's Tail Inn."</p><p>Arthur decided that he hated this man.</p>
<hr/><p>One drink turned into three, and for reasons that Arthur could only chalk up to a deep-seated hatred of self, he was still drinking alongside Jones at a corner table of the Bull's Tail Inn well into the dark hours of the evening. It was not so much an <em>Inn </em>as it was a <em>Saloon, </em>or perhaps it was both at the same time. It was the largest building on the main road, and had two stories. The upstairs floor contained a modest number of bedrooms to let, some of which seemed to be reserved for the clients of the Inn's "waitresses". Arthur had paid for two of the non-reserved rooms. One for himself, and one for Jones.</p><p>Jones himself, Arthur learned, was called Alfred. He was young and blond and held his whiskey well into his forth shot—which somehow, he still expected Arthur to pay for. He'd left his giant paint mare (Comoco, he'd called her) hitched outside, and had led Arthur into the inn, guns and all, looking for all the world like he'd rolled into town on a tumbleweed two weeks ago and hadn't bathed since. Alfred ordered one of the most expensive whiskeys on the shelf, and Arthur took three rounds of the house beer. After a while, they started talking, and the day's events came spilling out.</p><p>"And now," Arthur slurred, tepid beer fizzing in his belly, "I'm here, in the middle of bloody nowhere—"</p><p>"Waxahachie," Alfred corrected.</p><p>"With no fucking train and no fucking constable, and no <em>fucking </em>money thanks to some lunatic cowboy who's getting pissed off all my damn cash." Alfred laughed, liquor making it come out closer to a cackle.</p><p>"Where you wanna go, anyway?" the lunatic cowboy asked, downing the second half of his whiskey.</p><p>"I'm supposed to be in Georgia right now."</p><p>"<em>Georgia?" </em>Alfred gaped at him, and then laughed. "H. Christ, Redcoat, how long were you asleep for?"</p><p>"I don't know," Arthur's face was bright red, he could feel it. He blamed the beer. "I need to get back east, I'm not meant to behere. God, it's all so stupid."</p><p>"I'll say," Alfred chuckled. He looked back at the bar like he was considering adding a fifth drink to Arthur's tab, but eventually set the glass aside and lounged into his chair, kicking up his boots on the empty seat to his right.</p><p>"Listen," he said, and Arthur was immediately wary. "The stationmaster probably already told you, it'll be another two weeks before any train comes in that's headed that far north. It's all local service down here—frankly, I'm not even sure how you ended up here." Arthur scoffed. It was his own colossal bad luck, he was sure. "Now me," Alfred continued, "I'm headed up north, day after tomorrow on a drive. If you want, you can come along, and I'll get you up to Abilene."</p><p>"Abilene?" Arthur said.</p><p>"Kansas," he clarified. "Biggest railway station this side of St. Louis, s'far as I'm concerned," Alfred told him. "Up Old Chisolm Trail. From there, you can hop on the Kansas Pacific Rail and it'll take you all the way east to wherever you want to go."</p><p>"To Georgia?"</p><p>"Wherever you want to go," Alfred repeated. Arthur considered this.</p><p>"And… why are you going there?" He asked.</p><p>"A drive," Alfred reminded him. "Cattle drive, that is. A hundred fifty head, five hundred miles. 'Bout a month's long drive."</p><p>"A <em>month?!" </em>Arthur burst, loud enough that a few of the bar's remaining patrons turned and looked at him. "You can't be serious," he said. Alfred shrugged, unbothered by the theatrics.</p><p>"As heaven and hellfire," he assured. Arthur gaped at him.</p><p>"You can't seriously expect me to take you up on an offer of… <em>a month </em>of travel, <em>over land, on horseback?" </em>He paused, but if Alfred was bluffing, his poker face remained steady. "You expect me to travel by road for a month, rather than wait two weeks for a train?" Alfred shrugged and raised his hands defensively.</p><p>"You were so damn worried about your purse back there that I figured you might not want to spend your pennies on two weeks here," Alfred said. "'Sides, Gunnar and his idiots won't be driving their herd north for another week, almost two. You really want to spend all that time waiting around for them to find you again while I'm not here to save your ass?"</p><p>"For the sake of whiskey," Arthur reminded.</p><p>"Look, all I'm sayin' is, waiting is expensive," Alfred met his gaze. "You come with me, I won't charge you a penny. I'll give you food, shelter, horses. All I ask is that you pull your weight. Look after camp, tend the horses, help keep me and my animals alive, and I'll get you to Abilene with your purse intact." He glanced at the glass on the table. "Aside from the room and the whiskey." Arthur continued to glare at him.</p><p>"You honestly expect me to act as a farm hand?" His voice dripped with every ounce of distaste and condescension he'd learned at his father's side. "I do not work with cattle, Mr. Jones, nor do I work with men who do."</p><p>Alfred watched Arthur for a moment, and then shook his head and sighed. He stood and dusted off his chaps. "The offer stands," he said, pushing his chair back under the table. "Sounds to me like you ain't got much to lose."</p>
<hr/><p>The following day, Arthur awoke mid-morning to sunlight streaming in from the street window and a straw mattress lumpy beneath his back. He made no intentions of leaving bed anytime soon, even if it was horrifically uncomfortable. He stared at the ceiling and listened to the clink and rumble of breakfast underway downstairs. He eventually dozed off again, only to awake when a loud <em>thump </em>rattled his door. Cautiously, he sat up and shuffled out of bed, going to the door and slowly pushing it open.</p><p>The door brushed against something, and he peaked around to see the rolled edge of a newspaper. He brought it into his room, shutting the door behind. It was this morning's newspaper. He'd only been given a portion, it seemed, but there on page three, near the end of the middle column, large block letters read:</p><p>
  <em>M.K.T. TRAIN DERAILED BY SINKHOLE BETWEEN MEXIA AND SPRINGFIELD<br/>
ALL NORTH-SOUTH SERVICE SUSPENDED UNTIL WRECKAGE CLEARED</em>
</p><p>Across the text in an adjacent column, someone had written on the page with dark blue ink:</p><p>
  <em>Redcoat: Offer stands, unless you want to start walking. You know what room I'm in.</em>
</p><p>"Bloody <em>fucking </em>hell," Arthur slapped the paper against his thigh and fell back into his bed with a groan.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Boots and Tack</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Despite knowing he had no alternatives besides running himself bankrupt in a backwater inn or being robbed blind on the street, it took an hour for Arthur to swallow his pride. Once he managed it, he didn't let himself linger. He marched to Alfred's room, knocked on the door, and agreed to Alfred's absurd plan before the man had time to say good morning.</p><p>Arthur had only known Alfred for twelve hours, and the most substantive of those hours had been defined by a haze of alcohol. Still, he found the horseman's lack of pithy remarks disappointing. He'd expected jibes and snide smiles, some form of mockery that was, no doubt, requisite for a British pansy stranded in the American west. What he got instead was a curt, understanding nod and a sympathetic apology about the rail line disaster ("It's a damn shame," Alfred had said, when Arthur handed him back his newspaper, "They just got done building that thing.").</p><p>He was so taken up in his surprise (and disappointment?) from Alfred's amiable attitude that it took him a moment to realize the American had begun to examine him, not unlike how a soldier might evaluate a new war horse. Eventually, Alfred's eyes settled on Arthur's feet.</p><p>"You got any other shoes?"</p><p>Arthur looked down at his plain oxfords and back up at Alfred, a sinking feeling in his stomach.</p><p>"No," he said. He only had one suitcase to his name; the majority of his clothes had been in the luggage car, and were probably waiting for him somewhere in Georgia. "Is that a problem?" Alfred stood back and put his hands on his hips, still considering Arthur's feet. He heaved a sigh.</p><p>"Yeah," he said, sounding torn. "What size are you?" Arthur told him, and Alfred sighed again. "I can work with that. You got all your things together?"</p><p>"Just me and the suitcase," Arthur said.</p><p>"Simple enough," Alfred finally cracked a smile. "Come on, then."</p><p>Arthur waited out front while Alfred fetched Comoco from the stables. He saw a man who looked like Gunnar from across the street and he clenched his suitcase handle tight, wishing he felt less out of place, less helpless. Suddenly, a mass of brown and white blocked Arthur's view, and he looked up from Comoco's shoulder to Alfred.</p><p>"I'm assuming you don't have a horse," the cowboy teased.</p><p>"Unless you mean the iron one that brought me here, no," he deadpanned, which earned him a chuckle.</p><p>"Hop on, then," Alfred nudged Comoco toward the raised front porch of the Inn. He took Arthur's suitcase and waited while the Brit mounted—well, hauled, cursed, and shoved himself, really—onto Comoco behind him. It was an awkward fit, and the saddle clearly wasn't designed to accommodate two riders, but eventually Arthur found a comfortable spot. He gripped the back edge of the saddle, partially to hold on and partially to keep it from pressing too sharply against his thighs. Alfred had swung one leg over the saddle so that he could lash Arthur's suitcase to the side. Once satisfied, he found the stirrup again and sat up straight.</p><p>"Comfortable back there?" He asked over his shoulder.</p><p>"Not particularly," Arthur told him.</p><p>"Well, it's only five hundred miles," the cowboy shrugged nonchalantly.</p><p>For the briefest and most horrific moment, Arthur was going to take the man at his word. Alfred must've felt Arthur stiffen in terror, because he laughed.</p><p>"I'm only joking. It's five. Might want to hang on, though, soon as she sees the end of the street, she's gonna want to run."</p><p>Arthur hadn't believed him, so when they reached the end of the street (and thus, the edge of town) and Comoco thrust them forward into a full-blown gallop, he let out an inelegant yelp and fell forward to grab at Alfred's waist lest he fall off the horse entirely. Alfred only laughed and let the horse have her head.</p><p>"She hates the city almost as much as I do!" He shouted, smiling wide and rolling with the movements of his horse, tossing up a cloud of dust as they barrelled down the trail.</p><p>"The <em>city?" </em>Arthur repeated, reaching up to prevent his hat from flying away. The removal of one hand from his anchor caused him to lurch, and he smashed his nose into Alfred's shoulder. If the American even felt it, he didn't seem to care. He laughed aloud and let his horse run faster.</p><p>Eventually, once Comoco had had her fun, they slowed to a more sustainable canter, and eventually a walk. Arthur considered himself an accomplished equestrian, but riding off the back of a saddle—a deep spanish-western saddle, at that—was something he'd never been taught to do. By the time they reached their destination, Arthur was ready to melt off the horse and find some comfortable spot of earth to interr his dying thighs. He didn't want Alfred to know exactly how taxing the ride had been, so he disguised his stretching by a show of looking around.</p><p>Somehow, they had ended up even further into the middle of nowhere than Waxahachie. The land around them was utterly flat, interrupted only by copses of short, scarred looking trees, bales of hay, grazing cattle, and a quaint, two storey farmhouse.</p><p>"Wait here," Alfred said, and Arthur turned to see the man dropping Comoco's reins over the beam of a rotting fence before setting off for the house. "I'll be right back." Once Alfred was far enough away, Arthur stopped disguising his winces and let himself stretch to his satisfaction. The horse didn't seem to mind.</p><p>Arthur stood there, uncomfortable in the exposed silence of the fields, feeling sweat drip down between his shoulder blades. The sun here was relentless, despite the fact that it was not yet May. It could not bode well for the next month of his life, and Arthur felt something like dread pooling in his belly.</p><p>The sound of a door opening was like thunder in the quiet, and Arthur turned to see Alfred standing at the farmhouse door, waving him over. As Arthur went to join him, a dark-skinned figure emerged from the house beside Alfred. Shorter and far older than the cowboy, he leaned heavily on a cane and peered out in a farmer's long-distance squint, as if eternally looking over a field. He did not look entirely happy and seemed to be glaring at Arthur. The first thing Arthur noticed about him were the waist-long braids of hair that ran down either side of the man's chest. Dark at the tips and nearly white at the roots, Arthur could not help but wonder how long the man had been growing out his hair to achieve such an effect.</p><p>"Arthur, this is Jesse Atetewuthtakewa," Alfred said, and if Arthur had been looking closer he might've seen the uneasy look in his eye as he introduced them. "Jesse, this is Arthur…" Alfred stopped suddenly, and Arthur realized he'd never given Alfred his surname.</p><p>"Kirkland," Arthur finished, reaching out a hand, "pleasure to make your acquaintance." Jesse took his hand firmly and gave it one shake up, one shake down. He withdrew his hand and crossed his arms.</p><p>"You're joining Alfred for the drive?" He asked, deadpan, eyes boring into Arthur with every passing second. Not a man of pleasantries, then. That was fine.</p><p>"Um, well, yes," the Englishman said. Jesse did not look inspired with confidence.</p><p>"I hear you need boots," he said, not bothering to look at Arthur's feet, "And horses."</p><p>"And a hat," Alfred added apologetically at Jesse's side.</p><p>"And a hat," Jesse echoed, still staring at Arthur.</p><p>"Yes, I… I would be highly appreciative of all of those things. I'm afraid I… well, I don't have much here," He said, feeling exposed and embarrassed. "I'm rather… rather far from home." He was sure he must've been blushing again, and hoped the shade of the covered porch would hide it. It was not often that Arthur Kirkland was left to the charity of others, let alone the charity of... well, the charity of <em>farmers. </em>Jesse turned to Alfred.</p><p>"He is the same size as Reuben," it was not a question. Alfred nodded anyway. Jesse was quiet for a moment. Then, he looked at the ground, down and away from Arthur. "You know where they are," he told Alfred, quieter than before. Alfred looked marginally surprised, a look he shared with Arthur.</p><p>"Thank you, Jesse," he said, and left it at that.</p><p>"I'm having lunch," Jesse announced, not looking back as he left his white visitors on the porch. He limped against his cane and retreated to the kitchen. "I will leave some out for you."</p><p>"Thank you, Jesse," Alfred said again, and then looked pointedly at Arthur and breathed a huge sigh of relief.</p><p>"He doesn't like strangers," Alfred confided quietly as he directed Arthur to go inside. "That went really well." Arthur made no comment about how his own reduced circumstances made him long for the earth to swallow him whole.</p><hr/><p>"Here," Alfred placed a pair of boots in front of him. They were western-style riding boots, obviously worn but still quite new, made of the thickest hide Arthur had ever seen. "Try these on." Arthur did, tucking his sleek black trouser legs into the edges of the boots in what was likely a ridiculous display.</p><p>"Good lord," he said moments later, "these may be the heaviest boots I've ever worn in my life."</p><p>"Heavy is good," Alfred told him, watching him shift and fidget with an expert's eye. "Heavy means unbroken ankles and fewer snakebites. Walk."</p><p>"What?" asked a wide-eyed Arthur, about 'snakebites'.</p><p>"Walk," Alfred repeated. "Move. How do they feel?" Arthur twisted his ankles experimentally and walked up and down the hall, trying to ignore the smell of the beef Jesse was cooking a few rooms away and the fact that he hadn't eaten breakfast.</p><p>"Tall," he decided. "The heel is higher than it looks."</p><p>"It's good for keeping your seat in the saddle," Alfred told him. "So, you think these will work?" It wasn't as if Arthur had much of a choice.</p><p>"Yes, I think they're serviceable," Arthur replied, chewing the inside of his lip. <em>I only hope they won't give me blisters</em>. He moved to take them off, but Alfred stopped him.</p><p>"Keep them on, walk around a bit, break them in. You'll want them as loose as you can before tomorrow."</p><p>"They feel like they've already been broken in," Arthur said, fairly sure he could feel his toes brushing up against the imprint of another man's feet. "Who is Reuben?" The question seemed to catch Alfred off guard, and it took him a long moment to answer.</p><p>"A good friend of mine," the American said. "He doesn't work here anymore, though, so…" he gestured to the boots.</p><p>"Doesn't work here… wait, do <em>you </em>work here?"</p><p>"For the last four years."</p><p>"With mister, er…" he knew he would not be able to duplicate the pronunciation of the name he'd heard earlier. "With Jesse?<em>" </em>Arthur clarified. Alfred chuckled.</p><p>"Not with him, <em>for</em> him," he corrected. "Jesse's a good boss, and a good rancher. It's his cattle we're taking to Abilene."</p><hr/><p>After they ate lunch, Alfred scrounged around a bedroom—the bedroom he let from Jesse, apparently—to find a hat that fit Arthur. After a while, he settled on an old grey bowler hat ("Never really fit me anyway,"<em>) </em>that, while it had a frayed brim, would keep the sun out of Arthur's eyes. Next came a series of bandanas and scarves ("To keep your neck from burning to a crisp,"), many thick socks, and the only set of clothes he could find that fit Arthur, ("Can't fix what you're wearing now, but I can give you something to change into down the road,") and a pair of leather gloves.</p><p>After all of this, Alfred suddenly paused, looking thoughtful. Hesitantly, he drew one of his revolvers.</p><p>"You know how to use one of these?" he asked, raising the gun grip-first toward the Brit.</p><p>Arthur was offended on behalf of all six generations of his navy-commissioned forebears. "Of course I do," he said, "my father taught me to shoot before I could hold the gun with one hand." Alfred looked both surprised and relieved.</p><p>"Good," The American said. Then, much to Arthur's surprise, he handed Arthur the gun, removed his belt, unfastened the empty holster, and attached it to a plain leather belt for Arthur. ".44 caliber, six rounds. I'd give you extra ammo, but you don't have anywhere to put it. Hopefully, you won't have to use it."</p><p>Arthur held the gun and the empty holster, dumbstruck. All his understanding of the American West told him that prairie men were inseparable from their sidearms.</p><p>"Are you sure you want me to carry this?" He studied the American's face for any signs of internal conflict, but saw only calm resolve. "I mean, don't you want to keep it with you?"</p><p>"Everyone should have a gun out on the trail," Alfred said, and there was a dark edge to his voice that made Arthur wonder, not for the first time, what the hellhe'd gotten himself into. "'Sides," he patted the gun that remained on his right hip and gave Arthur a cheeky grin, "this one's newer and nicer." He adjusted his belt and turned. "But leave it here for now. Let's go see if any of Jesse's horses don't hate you."</p><hr/><p>Arthur may not have been experienced in the high-horned Spanish saddles of the American west, but he'd been riding atop pedigree English, Spanish, and Arab horses since before he could stand. His mother's stables had always been something of a haven for him, huge and lively and full of plenty of tall, hooved friends. It had been home to eight purebred mares and two stallions who'd sired warhorses and champions for his Majesty's Armies. For Arthur's tenth birthday, his uncle had given him a pony, brought all the way down from Scotland, to help him improve his riding skills with an animal his size. After such an upbringing, Arthur considered himself a decent judge of horseflesh.</p><p>Pedigree, these animals were not.</p><p>Alfred let out a whistling, humming sort of noise as he approached the paddock. It seemed to be a call of some kind, for the horses beyond the fence perked up and one of them, a sturdy brown bay, came walking calmly toward him. Her ears flicked in interest, nostrils flaring and huffing with recognition. Alfred grinned at her.</p><p>"Heya there, Sally girly." She came right up to the fence and didn't stop until she'd butted her nose against Alfred's chest, pushing him back a pace. He laughed and began scratching along her jaw and behind her ears, which she leaned into with welcoming little huffs. "Good to see you too, missy." He kissed the white star on her forelock before waving Arthur over.</p><p>"Sally's probably the sturdiest mount here," he explained, "we'll get her saddled up and see how you ride."</p><p>"I can ride perfectly well, I assure you," Arthur told him.</p><p>"Relieved to hear it, but we train 'em a bit differently out here. Different tack, too. Come on, we'll get you set up and have you throwin' lassos in no time."</p><p>"Who said anything about <em>lassos?" </em>Arthur panicked, but thankfully, Alfred laughed it off.</p><p>Once Sally was tacked up and chomping pensively on her bit, Arthur took himself and his new boots to the horse, grabbed the saddle, and was about to swing himself up when he spotted something that gave him pause. Sally was branded on the shoulder, a giant pale "<em>US" </em>against her dark coat. Arthur glanced back at Alfred, who was leaning casually against the paddock fence.</p><p>"This ain't her first rodeo," he confirmed solemnly. "Cannonfire, gunfire, shouting—cattle," he added at the end with forced levity, "Sally doesn't budge for anything. Hop on up." Arthur did, and spent some time readjusting himself in the saddle, fiddling with the stirrups and hoisting them higher. Alfred came up to him and took them back down.</p><p>"Easy way to ruin your legs on the first day," he said, manhandling Arthur's booted foot into what he judged as the right length—far too low, by Arthur's measure—and giving his leg a pat when the stirrup was buckled. "Probably feels weird now, but believe me, your ass'll thank you by day two."</p><p>"Right," Arthur said instead of thanking him. He guided Sally around the paddock in a casual walk, following Alfred's instructions on how to use the split reins, how to guide her with one hand, and very repeatedly, how to relax.</p><p>"You can't ride for a month if you're tight as a damn bowstring, Redcoat," he'd said at one point as Arthur was struggling to steer, because apparently American horses learned commands the exact opposite of English horses, because of course they did.</p><p>"Yes, yes," Arthur grit his teeth and tried not to tense his knees too tightly against Sally's sides lest she decide he wanted her to gallop.</p><p>"Careful," Alfred warned as he strayed a bit too close to the other horses in the paddock.</p><p>"I'm <em>trying</em>."</p><p>One of the others nipped at Sally's flank, and she kicked back, and someone neighed and then it was all hooves teeth and Sally was rearing onto her hind legs, throwing out her front hooves at the others and backing up on her hind legs.</p><p>"Steady on, lass," Arthur kept his seat only from decades of experience. He yanked on the reins and pulled Sally's head back until she landed her front hooves and backed away from the feisty horses which continued to eye Arthur, ears back. "Come along, then," he nudged her back away from the group and ended up near Alfred, who'd vaulted himself into the paddock at the first sign of trouble. He was watching Arthur with a newfound look of respect.</p><p>"I see you've met Ohapitu," Alfred nodded his head at the feisty golden dun, who still had his ears down.</p><p>"Ohap- hapi-what?" Arthur frowned.</p><p>"You can call him Happy," Alfred offered, crossing his arms and watching the horse snort and flick his tail, "though he rarely is. He's a mustang, and likes reminding people of the fact. Come on, Happy Boy, enough of that," Alfred chided the horse, to little effect. "You'll get your chance to nip at the heifers later, you goddamn cattledog." He shooed him away.</p><p>"He's coming with us?" Alfred asked incredulously. He knew little of the mustang breed except that they were born wild and tended to stay that way.</p><p>"Oh, he's a menace alright, but the fastest runner of the bunch and too stubborn to get tired fast. We'll need him out there to keep the steerage in line." This meant nothing to Arthur, but he nodded anyway.</p><p>"Alright," He said, and eyed the group of horses again, half of which had resumed their midday grazing and pretending the humans weren't there. "Any other wayward teeth I ought to watch out for?" Alfred chuckled.</p><p>By the mid afternoon, they'd assembled their mounts, three to each man. Alfred would take Comoco, Happy, and a dark and spritely thoroughbred, Banjo. Arthur would have Sally, a leggish piebald called Pedro, and a stout little roan horse who Arthur was alarmed to find out was also a mustang.</p><p>"Paka's an older girl," Alfred had assured him, "but still has a feisty side. Hold on tight!" Which did nothing to reassure him.</p><p>They spotted Jesse on their way back to the house, across a far field and mounted on a tall quarterhorse. He was pivoting around to get a better view of the mass of cattle crowded into the fenced-off field, clicking his tongue and and whistling to direct an unseen cattle dog around the herd. Alfred explained that he would be completing his final count of the cattle before the drive began the following day.</p><p>"He seems quite at home on horseback," Arthur said, surprised considering how the man had leaned on his cane just hours earlier. Alfred smiled.</p><p>"Jesse was born in the saddle, I think. Sure has taught me a thing or two. Come on, we ought to get dinner going. Big day tomorrow!" Alfred gave Arthur a slap on the back and jogged ahead to the house. Arthur felt his gut begin to sink again, and looked down at himself. He may be wearing western-style boots, a worn hat on his head and a bandana about his neck, but he was still wearing his English-tailored trousers, which even tucked into the boots were now splattered with mud. He heaved a sigh.</p><p>"If you could only see me now, Alistair," he whispered to the world, knowing for a fact that he had no <em>clue </em>what he'd actually signed up for. "Swaggering about, indeed."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Atetewuthtakewa is a real Comanche name that, to my understanding, translates to one who strikes with a bow. I've had to rely on some older academic sources for some of my applications of the Comanche language, so the translations are likely imperfect and possibly mis-applied, and I apologize for this. The three-part article series by Joseph B. Casagrande, available on JSTOR, was one of my primary sources for names and terms. It was written in the 50s (by a white man, naturally) and I'm not a subject matter expert but it was interesting to read!</p><p>Ohapitu simply means "yellow".</p><p>Paka means "arrow".</p><p>If anyone is interested, I wrote most of this chapter while listening to the Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron soundtrack on repeat. That movie absolutely defined my childhood, I tell you. Give it a listen!</p>
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